


Anchor

by MobiAblackout



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Bleeding, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Post World Cup, Secret Relationship, Sex, Underrated Pairing, a little teenage neytinho, mentoin of smoking, realistic as fuck so realistic that it hurts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MobiAblackout/pseuds/MobiAblackout
Summary: Phil would never let him go, he held him closely even miles apart, and that cage was too confining for someone like Neymar who needed the freedom of open skies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These two.

Who the fuck was he anymore? He always defined himself by what he wasn't, goddamnit, and right now his compass was broken. Where the fuck was home anymore, what the fuck was an anchor? He'd never had one, not really, not until him, him and those goddamn brown eyes that pulled him in, kicking and screaming, clawing at some invisible hands that he didn't know whether or not they were trying to save him or push him down even further. Do you know how hard it is to look yourself in the fucking eyes, knowing that this is all your fucking fault? that you ruined his dream, their dream they promised each other they will bring the glory again, the sixth star. It was his fucking fault. All of it. He knew it, and he hated it. Hated having to fake the smiles with the fans, hated having to pretend that it didn't hurt. But it did, oh man it fucking killed him. He didn't remember how many drinks he had by now, or how he had gotten to this point, but he knew he had ignored a lot of phone calls from Rafaella. He wasn't stable, he never really had been to be quite honest, but without Phil, his anchor, his fucking glue, all bets were off.

He was a fuck up. He finally accepted it, took it in, the definition he fought against every day of his lie of a life. Posturing as some I-don’t-give-a-fuck guy when really he did give a fuck too much when he was some fragile shell of a man who just needed a fucking friend, not this goddamn…whatever the hell he had been. A drug? A fix? Stitches on old wounds, a motherfucking addiction. He had an addictive personality; he knew that, he had nature and nurture to thank for that.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. They could be teammates, they could even be friends but man the minute he had finally given in to that temptation, to capture those lips with his own, gripping tightly onto the back of his neck, moaning in relief and celebration and goddamn completion, the game had changed. They were so young and stupid he couldn’t resist those curly brown hair and those chuppy cheeks, red with lots of acne, and his goddamn sweet smile, Phil was the prettiest and nicest boy he knew, just talented as him running on the pitch controlling the ball with his beautiful slander legs, he wanted to ruin him the first time he saw him, wanted to keep his beauty just for himself, thinking about anyone see his beauty made his blood boil, the only one who understood how gorgeous Phil was, was him, even slightest touches, meaningless teasing made his heart hurt that it was physically painful. 

He could remember the sage advice that Dani had given him, that we hurt the ones we love most, that love and hate are entwined, that both inspire passion and bloodlust. That was one truth that had stuck with him. That was a dynamic he hadn't expected to come out of that…relationship, he guessed, but he could see exactly what he meant now. He didn't hate Phil, he hated that Phil had gotten so under his skin, running trails along tendon and bone, sending electric shocks of emotion he couldn't put into words into his stomach, making him dizzy and hungry and riding some goddamn high.  
But he let his damage get the best of him and he always hurts the ones he loves; he makes it easy for them to leave. They always do. And now he was sitting in his empty apartment, drunk, crying, with a broken mirror in shards on the floor and bloodied fists, leaving streaks on the walls and stains on the carpet.

He was a goddamn virus. He infected everything with his touch. While Phil was the warmth of the sun, all he was a fucking poison. And now he had done it again. He was so stupid. He was so fucking useless. He was filth, he was garbage, he was trash, he was just as bad as he had been the last world cup, but he was so much worse. He was falling apart, bleeding down to his elbows, knuckles swollen and probably broken. But fuck it, fuck it all, he'd work through the pain, he always had, it's what kept him breathing. It wasn't enough, he wanted to ache.

Punching himself in the face seemed like the best option at the time.

Nothing could hurt the way he felt, but the pain of punching himself repeatedly in the jaw, hitting his head off the wall, that could distract him long enough. The taste of blood could mask the taste of tears.

"What the fuck."

His eyes were closed, letting the bliss of the alcohol and the pain and loss of blood carry him. The voice got louder.

"Neymar. WHAT. THE. FUCK."

Yes, good, tell him what trash he was, how fucked in the head he was. How no one could ever love him, how could they?

A cracking sound hit the air right at the same time he felt it across his face. He opened his eyes… and why the fuck was Phil here? Hadn't he done enough?

Phil saw those green eyes go wide momentarily, and then settle into back into that icy glare that got him in this mess in the first place. He hadn't signed up for this, he never had any intentions on trying to fix or save anyone. Nor did he ever really try, it just seemed to happen naturally. He also hadn't signed up to fall in love with this asshole, but, well.

"What the fuck do you want." Neymar was slumped against the wall, knees drawn in on himself, leaning his head back. His words were slurred, half from the entire bottle of whiskey or two that he had downed, half from the pain and blood loss. Phil could see the muscle in his jaw twitching. He knew he wanted to say so much more. "What, did you forget some of your shit? Are you here to remind me how useless I am? What the fuck do you want, Phil. Because I am so not in the fucking mood."

He hated seeing him like this. He knew the type of personality he had, he knew how damaged he was, but he also knew what it was like to wake up next to him in the middle of the night, watching him while he slept. Instead of seeing the hair that was currently matted with blood and sweat, watching a skinny boy with soft curls plaster over his head. He remembered the feel of his full lips against his the tattoo on his neck, the anchor, those bloodied hands having once trailed down his chest and stomach, to find home along his hips.

Neymar wasn't as damaged as he made himself out, but he was also more dangerous that he even knew. His kiss was like fire, burning and branding itself upon Phil, marking him as his, indefinitely. Phil would never let him go, he held him closely even miles apart, and that cage was too confining for someone like Neymar who needed the freedom of open skies. Phil needed to leave, he needed to rip himself away, and he couldn't be what kept Neymar together, that was something he needed to do that on his own.

But Phil couldn't sit by and watch him like this either. He wanted so desperately to be cold, to feel that ice water in his veins, but the warmth of Neymar's presence always melted him, flooding him, making him feel heavy with emotion and fear and wanting.

He extended a hand, helping him this one last time. It had to be the last time. He couldn't play this game with him anymore.

Neymar looked up at him, seeing Phil extending his hand slowly to him, as if it would be bitten off. He just sits there, watching Phil start to bring his hand away. He quickly grabs, not wanting to lose the opportunity to touch him one last time.

And suddenly it was as if the room caught flame.

Oh god, this was a mistake.

Phil pulls Neymar up to his feet, but Neymar pulls Phil into his arms. All he can smell is whiskey and blood and sweat, and why did he do this, why did he offer his hand, he was falling fast, his resolve was shaking, fuck fuck fuck fuck. He knew it was all over when he was spun around, his back hard against the wall, Neymar's face streaked with tears and blood, staring at him. This was the exact predicament he found himself in before, so years ago, and in some sick twisted way, instead of escaping the cycle, he had simply rebooted it.

The feel of Neymar's fist flying past his head to hit the wall knocked him out of his thoughts.

"Why…fucking why…"

Phil knew the question was more than one. Why was he there, why did he leave, why they lost when they were top of the world, why you said you had to leave when you knew I was at my lowest point. He couldn't answer none of them, really. Not out loud. He couldn't do that, he could never say. He couldn't justify the answers, not in a way that Neymar would understand, sober or not. The decisions had been made, explaining them would do nothing to change what happened, not like how Neymar wanted. It was never about wanting to abandon him, of not loving him.

In fact, he still fucking loved him, so much, so goddamn much. Rafaella had called him, telling him how he was scared for Neymar, that he hadn't answered his phone in hours, that he figured he should know. Dani was going to be the one to come check to make sure Neymar still had a pulse, but Phil wanted to make sure for himself. He couldn't have that guilt on his hands.

And here he was, pressed against a wall by Neymar, who just kept hitting the same part of the wall over and over again, whispering now. "Why won't you answer me…why won't you ever tell me…you never tell me…"

"Stop. Neymar, just stop."

The fist kept coming, not as hard this time, but still landing in the same spot on the wall. Phil could see how swollen and bloodied his hand was getting, and finally broke. He couldn't see him fall apart like this anymore over him. He caught the fist with his hand, moving his hand to quickly wrap around his wrist and force it down.

"Just fucking stop, Neymar."

Neymar looked at him, and god it was like he was going to kiss him, and if Phil gave in, if he gave in now, then it would all be for naught, this would have been nothing but a way to torture Neymar and he couldn't have that on his conscious either.

"Let's…let's get you cleaned up, alright?"

Neymar nodded, suddenly very exhausted. Any fight left him the minute he felt Phil's skin against his, his hand clasping around his pulse. It was as if the warmth of his touch reignited every emotion and quieted him in a way he had searched for all night, and it hurt even worse.

Phil managed to get both Neymar's face and the cuts on his fist washed, wrapping his hand. He was gentle, quietly tending to him, both in their own thoughts. Phil at the irony of him literally fixing him this time around, Neymar at the shock of Phil being the one to fix the wounds he made. When Phil started to gently look at the back of Neymar's head, seeing if he'd need stitches, Neymar took advantage of leaning forward to wrap his arms around Phil's waist, holding him in place.

"I…"

"Shhhh. Fucking stop, Neymar. Just keep quiet." If he started to talk, this would only snowball into a larger problem. Phil was already questioning his motives, feeling so goddamn guilty for driving the man he loved to this state. How goddamn stupid was he? Leaving because he was afraid of how much he loved him, scared because of not being able to pull him together after such a bad loss, intimated to get caught with Neymar ruining their careers, to be gay openly, he was a cheating bastard, he didn’t even know who he cheated on, Neymar because he was with him first or his wife because she didn’t know a thing about what’s going on. 

Neymar hummed to himself, the feel of Phil in his arms, even for this moment, being the anchor for him once more, it was everything he needed. The feel of his fingers in his hair, being able to touch him again…it lulled him into a happy numbness. He murmured into Phil's stomach.

"I'm sorry."

Phil paused, hands freezing momentarily, before sighing to himself and rubbing a hand lightly on Neymar's back.

"It's…it's not your fault. Ok? It's not your fault…it was never your fault… None of this was ever your fault."

He has to bite his lip from saying any more, as he feels the dry sobs coming from Neymar. He knew he had struck a nerve, he knew Neymar blamed himself for everything had happened in the tournament, telling him that might have been the worst thing he could do right now, but it was the only truth he could tell him without falling apart at the seams himself.

He had to peel Neymar's arms from around his waist, crouching down and holding Neymar's head up to look him in the eyes. They were red and swollen, irritated from crying and drinking.

"Come on…let's get you to bed, alright?"

He manages to help Neymar into his room, and asks Neymar if he's ok to get changed, not wanting to recall the memories they had left in there of stripping each other slowly when there was time, or desperately when they just couldn't wait. Neymar nodded slowly, while Phil went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water for Neymar, taking the time to clean up the mess left in the living room.

Why was he doing this? Why didn't he just let Rafaella clean this up? Because you can't control whom you love, you were supposed to help him, not hurt him. Phil groaned to himself, feeling the last shreds of his resolve fall apart. He had to make sure Neymar was ok, but he couldn't do anything else, he'd already started to regret his actions.

He made his way back into the room, to see Neymar softly snoring in the bed. Phil smiled in spite of himself, and placed the water on the nightstand. He walked over to the dresser, leaning against it, grabbing his phone.

-Well? Is he alive?-

-Yeah, snoring in bed now. Wrapped up his wounds, cleaned up the mess.-

-…and?-

-And I'm leaving in a few, I just want to make sure he's ok.-

A half hour had passed of Phil just watching Neymar sleep. He was fitful, grabbing at the other pillow on the side. He saw him wrap his arms around it, and closed his eyes tightly, realizing he was only hurting himself more the longer he stayed. He went to leave, but he felt his legs stop. He turned around, realizing that with the way things went, he could end this as peacefully as possible. He softly made his way over, and leaned over, placing a soft kiss on Neymar's forehead, a goodbye he didn't have the guts to say aloud again.

"Don't go."

Phil's eyes shot open, moving away to look down at Neymar, whose eyes were half-lidded, groggy and confused.

"Don't leave me again. I can't watch you leave again."

Fuck.

Neymar's good hand shot out to catch Phil's, and it was as if a fuse had been ignited up Phil's spine. He closed his eyes, not wanting to let any tears risk their way out.

"I can't." Neymar's face fell, and he went to let go of Phil's hand, when Phil continued. "I can't ever leave you. No matter how much I try. I can't ever leave you."

He quickly glanced at Neymar's lips, shooting his eyes back to Neymar's. Neymar whispered a single word. "Please." Giving in to temptation is what first got him in this mess, and by god it's what got him back into it. He leaned over and softly kissed Neymar, just a gentle press of lips, but it was all that Neymar needed. He was too tired for anything else, too drained. He wrapped an arm around Phil, pulling him onto the bed fully, nuzzling his head into Phil's neck. His anchor.

Phil could already feel those stitches reforming between their hearts, forcing its way through the scar tissue of the last time they were severed. Phil absent-mindedly rested a hand against his chest, as if he could feel them making their way through. Neymar's hand rested over his, having moved from his waist.

Phil closed his eyes, wondering to himself why he ever felt they were caged. He let the feel of Neymar's deep, even breathing lull him to sleep, Neymar's hand still holding his over his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone write about them, why neytinho is so underrated :(((

He could never quite figure out what it was about him, not until now. Those eyes, they held everything. When he was laughing, the vague shreds of his innocence floating to the surface, they were amber green; when the light caught him just the right way, they’d appear golden, slightly murky with his thoughts. And when he was riled up, either to anger or arousal, they were a deep green.

That’s the color he saw staring back at him when he woke up, slowly blinking his eyes open. Those eyes, full of desperation and lord knows what else. The stitches in his heart tugged, hardened by tears and blood and alcohol. He couldn’t rip them again, not without spilling open in this bed. Phil breathed slowly, as if any sudden movement could set him off.

He wasn’t quite sure what Neymar was going to do, to be honest. It was still very early, the sun not having even fully risen; he figured he’d be too tired, hungover, sore from last night. He remembered that moment when he had been pushed against the wall, that momentary fear and shot of arousal mixing in the base of his spine, wondering if Neymar would give in to the temptation again. He had prayed, but he didn’t know for what: to have him succumb again, or to resist. He didn’t know what he wanted, then or now.

When he felt Neymar’s bandaged hand rest on the side of his head, slowly twisting the sleep-tousled curls between his fingers, he could tell that Neymar still didn’t believe he stayed. Hell, he didn’t believe he stayed. He had been so sure of his decision, but that was always his downfall: he could never say no to Neymar, not without lying to himself to do so. So when Neymar slowly pulled him in for a kiss, half out of fear of this being a dream, half out of him still being guided by exhaustion, Phil couldn’t say no.

A gentle press of lips, just like the goodbye kiss that didn’t end up being goodbye. Neymar breathed a sigh of relief, being able to feel Phil’s lips against his again, and to be aware of it, even only slightly, was settling him, bringing him back. He kissed a bit harder, needing more than just the innocence this time around. He needed to rebuild himself, slowly, and Phil was the only one who ever could do it.

Phil knew that when Neymar started to move to lay on his back, pulling Phil on top of him, that this was going in a direction he was not ready to head in at… he looked quickly over at the alarm clock on the side table…4:28 am. This was not a direction he was ready to head in at nearly 4:30 in the morning. He had only had maybe two, three hours of sleep tops thanks to Neymar, and yet there he was, straddling his hips, with his mouth still on Neymar’s, his tongue in his mouth. Shit.

He breaks the kiss away, having to move his face away so Neymar would stop chasing his lips for even a moment. “Neymar, we shouldn’t.” He never said he didn’t want to…just that they probably shouldn’t. They were both exhausted, they were both still dealing with some semblance of emotional whiplash, and they still had so much they had to talk about.

“Please.”

“Please.”

Oh god not again. It was still weird for him to hear Neymar begging, in any form, and the feel of his hands, so large and warm, against his hips was tugging at those stitches in his chest again, tightening them, drawing him closer. He felt Neymar press his hips up, and just feeling him hard beneath him made Phil have to close his eyes to regain thought.

“Please, Phil. Don’t make me beg anymore.” Neymar pressed his hips up again, pulling Phil against him, rolling his eyes slightly backwards at the feeling. Usually, he’d have flipped Phil over at this point, taking control of the situation. This time though, this time he needed Phil to make the moves, to control the pace. He wanted that so badly, to be able to just let go, just once, just once with him.

Hearing him beg was clouding Phil’s head slightly, and he couldn’t help but let out a slight moan when Neymar ground their hips together. He shook his head, partially to clear his thoughts. “Ney… not now…too tired…we shouldn’t…” Once more, Neymar grinds their hips together, groaning.

“Fuck, please…I need you to, please…”

Shit. He was so tired, but if it was going to keep him quiet and help him sleep… He bit at Neymar’s ear lightly, tugging his earrings, whispering, “you’re lucky I –“ No. Not right now.

Neymar knew, he could tell with the way that Phil broke off that sentence. He didn’t bother pursuing it, not now, not with the way Phil was slowly making his way down his body. He had fallen asleep in just his boxers, which thank god because it made it so much easier for Phil to undress him. His brain felt heavy, and the feel of Phil’s hand around him, the warm wetness of his mouth on him, it was something, but it wasn’t everything. And everything is what Neymar needed.

Phil was honestly being a little sloppy, and if it wasn’t 4:30 in the fucking morning, he probably would have made more of an effort. But he was tired, and Neymar was still making these delicious little noises, shifting his hips, and it seemed to be doing the trick, so fuck it. He’d switch off from sucking him deep into his mouth, to stroking him tightly, watching his muscles tense and release with the change in sensation.

He thought he was doing enough to keep Neymar quiet, at least as quiet as sex with him could be. But whenever Neymar damn near whimpered out that he needed more, Phil wasn’t going to budge. He was exhausted, there was no way in hell that he was going to do anything more than this, he wasn’t exactly ready either. He went to go wrap his lips around Neymar’s length again, when Neymar spoke up again.

“Need you…fuck, need you inside.”

Oh. Oh.

Phil could feel his brain fog over at the thought, and his body reacted in kind. Neymar never asked for that. He was so dominating in bed, and in life, that it was just assumed that he’d always be the one to top. And yet here they were, with Neymar begging Phil to fuck him. At 4:30 in the fucking morning. Phil had definitely woken up at this point. Fuck what time it was.

“Are…are you sure?” His hand had stilled on Neymar’s cock, but Neymar pushed his hips up into Phil’s fist, groaning.

“Fuck, yes, please…” Neymar let go of his death grip on the bed sheets to blindly claw at the side table, looking for the drawer. “Where the fuck…”

Phil couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, seeing Neymar so desperate and needy. It was a foreign sight, and his heart made some strange skip to see him like that. “Calm down, I’ll get it.”

He climbed out of the bed, taking a moment to finally strip himself of the clothes he had fallen asleep in, before grabbing the lube and a condom out of the side table. He could feel Neymar watching him, and when he looked back at his face, his eyes had some gold in them again. God, he was so trusting, that still made his stomach drop, how he could still be so trusting sometimes.

Phil pushed the thought out of his head when he crawled back on the bed, making quick work of tearing open the condom wrapper and rolling it onto himself. He looked down at Neymar’s body, and it felt almost foreign to him, seeing Neymar like this. He knew there wasn’t really anything different from when he’d be on his back waiting for Phil to ride him, but there was always that understanding that Neymar would be in control. He wasn’t this time, and that made some weird twisting feeling in Phil’s stomach, mixing very oddly with the arousal that kept its firm hold on him.

He poured some of the lube on his fingers, nervously hoping to himself that it was warm enough. He didn’t know why he felt this anxiety riding his spine, at least not what was specifically causing it. There were plenty of reasons…but this wasn’t the time to think on it. He places his other hand on Neymar’s knee, and looked up at his face. “You ready?”

Neymar nodded, his head lolling back onto the pillow when Phil slowly slid a finger in. It was still a new sensation for him; he’d only ever felt this once or twice before, pure curiosity having gotten the best of him on a lonely night. It was different having someone else do it, though. It was the difference that he needed right now.

Phil couldn’t help but groan to himself seeing Neymar react to just one finger; he was going to Hell quite quickly at this rate. He slowly fucked him with the one finger, waiting for those breathy moans to come back from Neymar’s lips. When he heard Neymar moan out for more, he moved to two fingers, rubbing his other hand up and down Neymar’s thigh. Soon, Neymar was begging him, “please, please I need you, I fucking need you.” Phil knew he wasn’t ready though, he could tell with how tense he still was.

“No, one more finger.”

“I’m fine, I just need to feel you, please Phil.”

Phil snapped at him, more out of concern, but still irritated at how Neymar tended to jump headfirst into things he had no real experience with. “No, I’m not going to fucking hurt you. Just trust me on this.”

Neymar stopped, flinching slightly when Phil said that. He nodded, going to say that he trusted him, instead a groan climbing its way out of his throat as Phil slowly added a third finger. It was a stretch, that was for damn sure, one that Neymar hadn’t even had the balls to try himself, but fuck it was getting him closer to what he needed. He fell into the pleasure of it even more, spreading his legs just a bit further, closing his eyes and letting Phil take control. It was nice to feel that when push came to shove, he could count on Phil to keep him where he needed to be, even when he wanted to just float away with the tides. After a few more thrusts, he grits out the word again.

“Please.”

Phil nodded, slowly pulling his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets. Whatever, they’d wash them later. He grabbed the bottle of lube again, pouring some more in his hands, coating himself and making sure to put some more on Neymar. He wiped his hand again, and looked up at Neymar.

“You tell me if it hurts, alright? None of this silent taking the pain bullshit. You fucking tell me, ok?”

Neymar nodded, eyes hazy with want, probably not even paying attention to what Phil said. “I will, just please, fuck, quit dragging this out…”

Phil closed his eyes, and pushed inside of Neymar slowly. He heard the hiss escape Neymar’s list, felt him tense up quickly. “Shhh, either relax or tell me to stop…” He rubbed his hand up and down Neymar’s thigh again, and when he felt Neymar start to relax around him again, he slowly pushed in further, eventually finding himself buried within him.

God, the sensation for the both of them…the tables had turned on them, and they knew it was more than just sex at this point. Phil leaned forward to give Neymar a gentle kiss, the slightest change in their angle making them both let out their own noises, a moan or a whispered “fuck.”

This wasn’t about rushing to any sort of finish; they were both still so tired. This was gentle and slow, this was rebuilding. Phil kept his face buried in Neymar’s neck, kissing along the column of it, kissing the tattoo 'tudo passa' whispering and groaning into his shoulder. Neymar kept his good hand wrapped up in Phil’s hair, his bandaged one resting on his back, just letting the sensations take him over. When he finally could feel that teetering feeling in the back of his spine, barely forming the words, “have to cum,” Phil pushed himself up, lazily wrapping a hand around Neymar’s cock. It only took a few strokes, firm and tight, along with Phil’s slow and steady rhythm, before he fell apart, mouth open with no sound coming out.

Seeing Neymar fall apart like this beneath him, it gave Phil some strange sense of accomplishment, and he captured Neymar’s mouth in his, moaning into his open mouth as he thrust harder and quicker, wanting that release to rip through him, needing that power shift in full. He felt it racing up his body, and he moved his face back to Neymar’s neck, groaning out “fuck, I love you” as his body finally released.

They lay there for a moment, trying to catch their breath, sharing a lazy kiss or two before Phil finally pushed himself up and pulled out, heading towards the bathroom to clean himself up and get rid of the condom.

He came back a few minutes later, crawling back underneath the covers. He felt Neymar wrap him up in his arms, and rested his head on his warm chest. He was even more tired now than he had been before, and the sight of the sky lightening with the rising of the sun, and the far away sound of birds chirping added to the bizarrely peaceful moment. They had so much to talk about, especially after everything that had just happened.

“Shush. You think too loud. Go to sleep. We’ll talk later.”

He looked up and saw Neymar smiling at him, a lazy smile that made his perfect white teeth appear for a brief moment. His face was still blessed out, but it was always such a good look to have float across his face, that it was okay. His eyes were that amber green again. He kissed Phil’s forehead gently, and repeated, “go to sleep.”

Phil nodded, letting the sound of the birds, and the feel of Neymar’s chest rising and falling with his breaths, like a gentle tide, lull him to sleep. Neymar watched him for a few minutes, before finally letting the weight of Phil’s body, and the weight of his heavy eyelids, pull him under again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Tell what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them.

Waking up first was both the best feeling and the most painful feeling for him; seeing him lying there, exhausted from the bullshit he had put him through since last night. Ugh, god he was even worse than he thought. He snuck out of the bed, thankful that it didn't wake Phil up, because he wasn't really in the mood for the inevitable conversation that would be had later. He made quick work of taking a shower and getting dressed, which in his case was putting on boxers and a pair of jeans. He made his way through the apartment, expecting to see more collateral damage, and instead seeing his apartment as if it were the exact same, minus one mirror.

He reached into the back of one of the kitchen cabinets, grasping blindly until his hand found the box. "Emergency" cigarettes. This qualified as an emergency, he reckoned. Sure, he had tried quitting, and for the most part was successful, but every now and then, that craving would slide up his arms, making him twitch slightly. This was one of those times. He'd ideally like some coffee with this, but his coffee maker was crap and they didn't sell coffee strong enough for it. He'd have to suffer with that loss.

He made his way back into the living room, sliding out onto the balcony. The Paris strip at night was beautiful, but the strip in the early morning? It was strange, like an aging body: you could see its beauty, but it's lost its vitality, it's frail and weakened and you have to really close your eyes and imagine it, and it'll never measure up to seeing it live and in person.

Lighting up the first cigarette was like lighting a spark in him. The comfort of it between his lips, just inhaling the nicotine and countless other chemicals that would try to kill him slowly, letting that smoke out slowly…it was the one thing he could control at his whim. Everything else was out of his hands, and god did that fucking bother him.

He anxiously flicked the ash off of the cigarette, looking down at the burning embers. Moving to Paris was another decision on a whim, although his father was the director of ‘Neymar transfer to PSG’ show and he was the main character who chose his role like tossing a dart at a map and going "oh ok." To some he appeared reckless, he knew that, but when your life is out of your control from the moment of your birth, when you have no control over the relationships you form with your parents, how you're treated in school, on what addictions you face, on whether or not you still parents, how you're treated in school, on what addictions you face, on whether or not you still have a fucking job in the morning…on who you fall in fucking love with…sometimes, sometimes deciding to light up a cigarette was the only shot in hell you had at pretending to have any control in your fucking life.

He hated thinking about it. God, he fucking hated it, he hated how his brain always found some way to dig that knife in a little harder, to rub that salt in his wounds. Losing Phil, even if to momentarily get him back – momentarily, because who knew what this conversation would end up being about – was another moment of they all leave you, they always do, the ones you love, the ones who tell you they'll never leave you, that they'll never hurt you, the ones you consider family, they all disappear, they all turn into shadow and dust and ash and ghosts… you are alone... He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He took another drag of the cigarette, leaning his head back as he exhaled. He hated being alone because of the thoughts in his head, but he liked being alone because he was less likely to damage the people around him.

It had been hard to avoid Phil, they played together since he remember touching a ball for national team, traveled the road together, had history back to under-17 national team. He'd always been floating near him, each one caught in the other's orbit. It was an obsession, not unlike the obsession he had for Messi, but unlike finding a kindred spirit, a father figure – in some fucked up, twisted, still eating at him way – he found…well, he didn't know what he found in Phil, but it burned at him, ate at his insides, to the point that when they finally made the big leagues, when they finally got to be on the main stage, the electricity of his nerves sparked like goddamn fireworks. He lit up like the Paris strip at night, full of sleaze and power and aggression and wanting.

It had been a few months in the under-17 national team, and he had been thrumming with this frenetic energy, jumping around twitchingly in the locker room. He knew what it was, Phil had finally eaten at him, finally torn a way into his chest, and his stupid personality quirks had been adopted. Including this stupid ritual, which was usually accompanied by some god awful screaming bullshit that Phil would blast on end. He didn't mind some of it, he supposed, but that was more because he had been forced into liking it after Phil would call dibs on his Walkman on a road trip in the bus. He'd watch him from his peripheral, watching Phil head bang he'd mouth out the words, drumming in the air, making the sign of the Cross or moving his thumb across his throat like he was slicing it, obviously thinking back to music videos or concerts he'd attended. He was channeling the live energy of that music, and when you'd see him on the pitch, god, it was like all of that music, all of that energy, all of that beautiful fucking rage blasted out of him full force. He'd dribble past every defender, pass the ball right in front of your feet wherever you are, scores equalizer almost like he was one of those bands that he'd listen to in the bus.

Neymar had adopted that because it worked, at least that's what he told himself. Helped him to sleep at night, if he ever slept. That was another thing that he had, unfortunately, no control over. He couldn't take sleeping pills, he was too young for that so instead, he'd suffer at night with fitful sleep, nightmares and memories seeping in, weighing him down, making him feel like his own skin was trying to suffocate him. He'd started to find himself praying for a way to sleep, even if it was only for an hour or so more.

So, he had adopted this ritual of building up that energy, letting it out on the pitch, giving him more of an endorphin release, letting that adrenaline bleed out of him slowly, feeling his muscles and his bones grow fatigued, feel his eyelids grow heavy, and finally get some fucking sleep. However, the energy hadn't left, it had only grown. He had still managed to fuck this up, goddamn it. So he did it again, hoping maybe he'd let it work its way out. Phil walked in the locker room, headphones on, banging his head just enough to feel the beat of the music, but not enough to be blatant. His eyes were closed, but when he opened them, he saw Neymar there, bouncing on his feet, running his fingers through his short hair back and forth, looking like he could punch a hole through one of the lockers.

"You good over there?"

Phil was amused, watching Neymar jump around like that. It was like he was trying to be him, and to be honest, right before he paused the music on his Walkman, he was doing a pretty good job, at least in going along with what he had been listening to. Neymar stopped, turning around to look at him.

His eyes were this wild amber green, like Phil purposely stared at his face, those hooded green eyes, long lashes ... he was beautiful in some perverse way, and Phil never really said that about boys often, if ever. He could say this about Neymar, he knew Neymar, he knew how wild and untamed he could be. Seeing him thrash around the locker room, to whatever frantic and wild music or thoughts in his head… it was like getting a look even deeper. It made him feel like he had intruded.

He couldn't help but swallow as Neymar spoke, voice low and raspy. "Do you know where I got this from? It's all your fault, you know." He moved closer to Phil, making Phil back up against the wall. He didn't know why he was so shaken by this, but he found himself being cornered by Neymar, and he didn't know what to do. Neymar had grabbed his hand, forcing it onto his chest. He wore a Brazil jersey, and he pressed Phil's hand against the Brazil emblem hard, forcing him to feel the erratic beating of his heart. "Do you see what I mean? It's all your fault."

Phil blinked at him, unsure what he meant. He knew he had gotten Neymar into liking some of the bands he listened to, maybe he was talking about how he'd get listening to some of the heavier bands, the shit with the really heavy bass, the low chugging breakdowns, the real guttural screaming, would get him amped to the point that he could feel the blood rushing in his head, he could feel his pulse racing in his neck, he was thrumming with it. He knew that feeling. "I'm sorry?"

It was like some nerve ending didn't get the right spark, the way that Neymar's face contorted briefly. He pressed Phil's hand even closer, almost as if he was trying to force it into his chest. "Don't you fucking get it? This is all your fucking fault." He was repeating himself, trying to drive home the point. He was terrible with words, with letting them escape his lips, at least if it was genuine emotion on a personal level. He was standing here, trying to force Phil to feel the way his heart was beating a mile a minute, how his blood had rushed through his body, how he was absolutely pulsing with an energy he couldn't get rid of through a good match, through good music. He finally gave up trying to explain, and instead he moved his hand to Phil's neck, wrapping it gently around his throat.

He could feel the pulse quicken under his fingers, good yes. He saw Phil's eyes widen, those brown eyes staring back at him, sucking him down. Something to drown in. "Do you get it yet?"

Phil had just made out the word "I" before Neymar had pressed his lips against his, not enough pressure to bruise or steal his breath, but enough to silence him. He moved his hand from his throat to rest on the back of his neck. He leaned his forehead against Phil's after breaking the kiss, and stared into those brown eyes again. "This is all your fucking fault."

 

Neymar shook his head, coming back to reality, to the present. He had replayed the moment over his head time and time again, of him pulling Phil to him, kissing him hard, feeling Phil push back against him, feeling him hard against him, grinding against him, trapped between him and a wall.

He almost had him like that last night, but he couldn't do it again, he couldn't replay that moment in real life, as much as he desperately wanted to. If it were up to him, if his body didn't betray him, he would have fucked Phil right there against that wall, make him feel the pain he was feeling, leave him feeling just as raw and as open as he was.

The thought of him fucking into Phil like that ignited two distinctly different trains of thought in his brain, but both left the same evidence. He thought of how much he had wanted to break Phil apart last night, and he thought of how instead, he had begged Phil to fuck him. He never begged anyone for sex. He never had to, not really. It wasn't even the sex, even though, god he needed to get off in the worst way, the drinking and the accidental self-harm hadn't done much to get rid of the itching ache under his skin. It was just some semi-permanent way of letting Phil back in, again.

Seeing Phil like that, letting the roles change, him embracing that desperate, brutal dominance… god, he was fucking hard thinking about it. He crushed the cigarette against the railing of the balcony, groaning out the word "fuck" as he thought about it more. His thoughts switched over to the thought of having taken Phil against that wall, of forcing him to open up to him, but instead his brain changed it to him falling to his knees, looking up to Phil, begging him.

Neymar Junior didn't fucking beg. He quickly hit his head against the railing, the soreness in his head ringing in his body. He tried to flex his hand in pain, but the swollen knuckles yelled back in pain. He was sore, and hung over, and horny, and his ass was still a little sore from being fucked, and who the fuck WAS he?

"FUCK." He screamed out all his anger and confusion, desperately reaching for another cigarette, grasping wildly for the lighter. Just as he lit up, taking a drag with eyes rolling back, the cigarette hanging limply from his lips, he heard the screen door to the balcony open. He looked over, opening his eyes barely. Phil was standing there, low slung gym shorts.

Fuck. Neymar sighed and leaned back against the balcony again, inhaling another drag of his cigarette, before looking down at the strip again. If you looked at it, you could see where its passion and its appeal would hide, but during the day, without the glamour, without the illusion… it was as if you couldn't recognize it anymore. He sighed and closed his eyes. Maybe moving here wasn't a whim as much as it was. He could hide amongst the smoke and liquor and whores and lights, but in the blatant, unforgiving sunlight? He couldn't hide from anyone.

He looked back over to Phil, closing his eyes, and inhaling another drag of the cigarette. Neymar Junior was not a begging man, not a praying man, but he was begging, praying, someone, anyone, to just let him have a moment. Of what, he wasn't sure. But he'd like at least a moment of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, I mostly wrote it for myself just wanted to share it with whoever love them as much as me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them.

It was hearing Neymar scream out that really woke him up, but he'd been floating in and out of consciousness for a good ten or fifteen minutes. The room was quiet, and as much as Phil did not want to get out of this bed, because goddamn it was comfortable as hell, he should see where Neymar was, and what self-destructive habit he may have decided to pick up today. He sighed, closing his eyes. That was rude. He was still confused and upset and angry and he shouldn't have thought that. He slowly dragged himself out of the bed, stumbling over to Neymar's dresser, finding some gym shorts to quickly throw on. He didn't even bother to do anything with his hair, sleep still hinting at his brain. He had just barely walked out of the bedroom and into the living room when he looked over and saw Neymar outside, looking blissful and golden and no stop it. He saw the cigarette hanging from his lips, saw his hair, dried at the roots but still damp at the edges, those hooded eyes closed, sitting back against the railing of the balcony, resting a hand on his stomach. He really was oddly beautiful, that thought had never changed, not since that time in the locker room.

Phil closed his eyes, smiling to himself at how it was as if the air had grown heavy, how time had stood still when Neymar's lips had touched his. It was like he was waiting for some spark to ignite, and he had felt that moment again last night. It was a déjà vu he never intended on being witness to. Years later, in his house, seeing him weak and slumped against a wall, not frantic and bouncing around in a locker room. One thing never changed…the look in those eyes. The look that swallowed him down. It's what always pulled him back down, was the look that Neymar could flash with just his eyes. It wasn't something taught, he was born with this eerie ability to lure people in, and that scared the shit out of Phil sometimes.

He looked back over at Neymar, seeing that hand on his stomach move lower, until he finally had palmed at himself, grabbing the cigarette with his other hand and crushing it into the rail, biting his lip as he groaned something out. God, it was fucking hot, and Phil felt once more like he was intruding on a moment. It was still early morning, but seeing Neymar like this, in nothing but jeans, smoking (when had he started that up again?) and palming himself in the open air? Phil swallowed hard. It all went downhill from there, pretty quickly at that. Neymar hit his head off of the rail, the hand on his crotch had moved to the concrete of the balcony, and he screamed out the word "FUCK." Any last remnants of sleep that fogged Phil's mind bled out.

He had just reached the door of the balcony when he saw Neymar's head loll back, another cigarette resting on that full bottom lip, a brief look of orgasmic bliss flashing across his face before the sound of the sliding door had hit his ears. Phil closed the door behind him, leaning gently against the railing. He could feel Neymar's eyes following him, until finally he had let out a sigh. "Let me guess…we need to talk?"

Phil shrugged, enjoying the heat of early morning in Paris. He was in desperate need of a shower, of food, maybe some coffee, and some serious exercise, but right now staying like this, in this state of half-dress with Neymar, just embracing the sunlight and post-makeup sex morning haze… it was kind of nice, a distraction that they both didn't need, but desperately craved. "We don't need to right now. It's still early." He knew they should, as long as they didn't discuss this, they'd play this cat and mouse game. He hummed to himself, drumming his fingers against the edge of the railing. He smirked to himself as he realized it was the song he had been listening to that night, years ago.

Neymar watched, feeling as if a tape was rewinding inside his head. He knew what was happening, a record skip, a glitch in the Matrix, an itch at the back of his spine. This wasn't the same, but goddamn it was close. He stood up, the cigarette still on his lip dangling precariously, and slowly walked over to Phil. All roads led back to him and that tattooed body, those plump lips, those deep brown eyes, his golden skin. He finally had made his way over, taking one last large drag of the cigarette before flinging it off the balcony, blowing the smoke to the side. His voice had taken on that even raspier trait that his younger.

"How do we always find ourselves in this situation, Phil?" He wrapped some of the short brown hair on Phil's head , fried and frizzy, around his fingers, tugging lightly made him moan. Phil closed his eyes, cursing himself for finding himself pulled down again, but not really. Some sick little part of him enjoyed that chase, as toxic as it was. "Hmm? How do we always find ourselves back here? I'm always the one cornering you against a wall. You're always the one who makes my heart want to beat its way out of my fucking chest."

He grabs Phil's hand with his bruised and swollen one, in bitter mockery of their first kiss, and placed it over his bare chest. No barrier this time, the only way to feel deeper would be to actually force his hand through skin and muscle and bone. His chest pounded wildly, and Phil could feel it, he always could, but he didn't say anything. He wasn't sure if it was because he didn't have words, or if he wanted to see how far this would push Neymar. Both thoughts disturbed him.

Neymar pulled Phil's hair back roughly, making Phil's neck bend back, and pushed his hips against him, forcing him to bend slightly backward over the rail of the balcony. He could feel Phil steadily growing hard beneath him, grinding his hips into him slowly. The bit off moan that Phil let escape his lips made Neymar's eyes shine briefly. "Oh, not much has changed since then Phil. See, early this morning, I may have begged for you like some desperate whore, but now…" He grinds his hips into Phil's harder, eliciting another groan from Phil. "Now, I can just leave you here, hard and wanting, bent backwards over a railing with the risk of falling, or I could drag you into the living room and fuck you against a wall. Whatever could I do…" He pulled Phil back up quickly, snapping his head straight to look him in the eyes, before growling low enough to make Phil have to actively listen. "But unlike you, I won't drag shit out, and I won't make you fucking fall." With that, he kissed Phil the way he had last time, thrusting his tongue inside his hot, sweet mouth, desperate, sucking the air out of his lungs. His other hand grasped Phil's hipbone, pulling him closer. He finally broke the kiss off, only to fling the sliding door open behind him, nearly tossing Phil inside.

Phil landed on the carpet of the living room, finding that he was stuck on some endless loop. The way that Neymar walked over to him, he wasn't sure if Neymar was going to fuck him or literally rip him to shreds. He'd seen that crazed look in his eyes when they were kids, and he'd seen it flashed at opponents on the pitch, but never truly aimed at him. Sure, he had a playful, mischievous glance that would spell that his ass was grass, but nothing as menacing as this.

Neymar knelt down, crawling on top of Phil, smirking when he saw Phil's eyes grow wide. "What's the matter Phil…do you not want this anymore?" He laid a gentle kiss on Phil's neck, on that fucking tattoo behind his ear, feeling that pulse flutter under his lips. Yes good. He pressed his hips down, just enough to feel Phil against him make him shiver, but not enough to make any sort of pressure that would relieve Phil's wanting. "You have this terrible habit of acting like you want it, begging for it, whining for it, and right when it crawls inside of me, latching itself on…"

He sharply bites down on Phil's neck, making him whimper in pain beneath him, body squirming, clawing at his back. He releases his hold on his neck, moving his mouth back to Phil's ear. "Right when it latches itself on, you rip it the fuck out. But you never have any blood on your hands… You always run right before it gets messy."

Neymar quickly gets up, leaving Phil lying on the ground, painfully hard and overwhelmingly confused and scared. He hears Neymar rifling through some drawer in the kitchen, and then furious footsteps back into the living room. Neymar comes back over to him, kneeling back down, but pulling Phil up by the back of his neck, forcing him to watch. Phil sees a flash of silver, and then it's like there's a three second delay in his brain as he watches Neymar take a razor blade to his chest.

Phil wasn't quite sure why there was one in the kitchen, and he had a dark, fearful thought, but shook it out of his head. The cut wasn't anything deep enough to do any serious damage, but enough to draw a few lines of blood over where his heart would be. The look of bliss on his face is astoundingly attractive and overwhelmingly disturbing all at once.

Neymar drops the razor on the carpet, yet another slight blood stain to be washed out, and grabs Phil's hand again, forcing it over the bloody cuts. He presses his hand hard again, eyes wild. "Can you feel it now? Can you feel it, now that your hands are finally fucking bloody? Do you fucking see what you do to me?" He forces the hand against the cuts harder, moving his fingers back and forth to make sure the cuts are getting his fingers bloody enough.

"You can wash away all the blood you want. I know my walls weren't this clean before I fell asleep. You can hide the evidence of what's broken, you can keep a barrier as thin as skin between us, but don't you ever pretend like you don't know what you fucking do to me." Neymar was nearly shaking he was so angry, he was so upset, he was so painfully fucking aroused. 

Phil, on the other hand, felt as if some shadow had crept up his hand the minute that Neymar forced his fingers to the bloody cuts on his chest. Neymar wasn't exactly wrong, he did in fact run before it got messy. This is what his intentions were last night, but…well. He looked up at Neymar, seeing those eyes full on deep green, and Neymar breathing heavily, a small smile from the pain flashing across his lips every time he dug Phil's fingers in deeper to his chest, into the cuts he made. He knew it was metaphor, but some small part of him feared that Neymar would literally cut a hole in his chest to make Phil feel his heart.

Neymar forced his hand away finally, quickly sucking one of Phil's tattooed fingers into his mouth, tasting his own blood mixed with the salt of Phil's skin. It was as if a shock of electricity flashed down Phil's spine to make him feel that on his dick. "You can wash as much blood as you want away. You can never wash me away. We're tied together." He grabbed the razor again, making a small cut on Phil's chest, below the ink on his chest, enough to just barely bleed, but that was the point. The blood.

Phil hissed at the pain of the blade in his chest, but when he felt Neymar move his hand away, heard the blade fall to the ground again, and saw Neymar collect the blood on his own chest on his fingers, sucking it into his mouth, and then lean in to kiss him, he could feel that air grow heavy around him again, felt the ticking of seconds slow down into infinity. He let Neymar lick into his mouth, tasting the blood on his tongue. He felt Neymar break away, and latch his mouth over the cut on his chest.

It was as if the stitches in his heart ripped to shreds under the blade, but were replaced with chains the moment his blood hit Neymar's mouth. He knew it was just his overactive brain thinking in metaphor and symbolism again, but this was something he had never experienced before, and it was oddly ritual like. Whatever clean break, whatever closure that Phil had attempted with his sanitized motions last night, whatever gentle unfolding Phil had attempted this morning…those all fell over the side of that railing out on the balcony. Neymar reacted to pain. Phil reacted to silence. Both echoed loudly in the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please someone write about them, this ship deserves everything. I was so desperate that I translate Portuguese Neytinho fanfictions to English. 
> 
> Phil>Ney, don't @ me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them more than anything.

Neymar finally moved his mouth away from Phil's chest, a slight smear of blood on the side of his mouth. That crazed look in his eyes tugged at Phil's spine, it was as if it reached right through his solar plexus, making him bend. Phil wanted to lick that blood off of his mouth, knowing it was his own. It was a much more morbid version of how he'd kiss Neymar after he would suck him off, that strange possessiveness of tasting himself on Neymar's lips.

How did he ever think this was going to end cleanly, if at all? He could feel those metaphorical chains in his chest wrap up and around his neck, strangling him. Only it didn't hurt, it was a good ache, he wanted more of it.

Maybe Neymar wasn't the only one with addictive tendencies. And giving into temptation seemed to be a consistent theme with them. Phil wrapped his legs around Neymar, watching Neymar's grin grow, before flipping them over so that Neymar was the one on his back. Phil took the position to his advantage, leaning down to lick that blood off of the side of his mouth, before kissing Neymar again, a little bit slower and deeper.

It was like some sort of switch had gone off in the back of his brain, he wasn't recognizing what he was doing, and yet his body started to pilot itself, going through the motions. It was if his body had been possessed the moment that Neymar's blood had touched his tongue.

"Ney…do you ever think that maybe I never told you I could feel it, for a reason? That maybe I just wanted to see how long it would take you before you finally snapped?" He kissed at his neck, feeling Neymar wrap an arm around his back. Phil shifted his hips, pressing into Neymar just a bit harder, moaning as he initiated the next challenge, so to speak. "That maybe, maybe I just like seeing how long it takes before you rip into me? That maybe I like that chase?"

He smiled into Neymar's neck as he felt his arm move from around his back, a hand grasping tightly into the back of his hair. Neymar wasn't the only one who got off on the pain - he was just more obvious about it. Phil hissed as Neymar pulled tighter, gritting out, "tell me what you want Phil." He knew it was dangerous to play like this, but fuck it, they were both sinking slowly, and he'd had enough of having to tiptoe around what he desired. "Do I really need to tell you, or can't you figure it out?"

Neymar groaned, bringing Phil's lips to his own, biting sharply at Phil's bottom plump lip. "Unless you want me to tear you apart right here, get your ass in the room." Phil didn't need any more encouragement after that. He stood up slowly, reaching a hand out to help Neymar up from the floor. 

Once more, Neymar pushed him against the wall, but this time, Phil laughed, low and throaty. "God, I always fall for it."

"Every time." Neymar reached his hand down, working underneath the elastic of the gym shorts to grab Phil's length in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the head, feeling the precum spreading with every swirl he made against. He smiled against Phil's lips as he kissed him, slow and lazy, as he stroked him, tightly but with no rush. "I couldn't wait. Sorry."

He kisses Phil once more, a quick peck on his lips, and removed his hand from beneath the shorts, before sinking to his knees, pulling the shorts down with him. He looked over on the carpet, seeing the razor sitting there, and grinned darkly. He reached for it, and made a small, shallow cut against Phil's thigh. He dropped the blade again, latching his mouth to the cut, sucking at it, tasting the blood on his lips, and wrapped a hand around Phil again, jerking him faster. The entire sensation of it, it knocked Phil out of his body for a moment. The feel of Neymar's hand around him, hard and rough, while his hot and wet mouth was locked on his thigh, licking and sucking over the cut he made, so sharp and quick, he would have fallen apart right there from just that. He was wound so tightly, and the steady bleeding out of his anger and frustration only added more fuel to the flame at the base of his spine. But Neymar broke away from his leg, gasping, and Phil had to look down, watching him as he wiped at his mouth. Neymar looked up at Phil, smiling, his lips red from the kissing and the blood, before wrapping them around him, sucking him quickly, in the absolutely filthy way that he did. He'd move his tongue back and forth, laughing when Phil always reached a hand down to thread into his hair, the vibrations making him grip tighter. He also knew that he'd use maybe just a bit too much spit, but he'd make up for it by using just a bit more suction. It would take care of itself, generally.

Phil had been watching Neymar, watched as his lips were wrapped around him, watched as Neymar's eyes would flick up every now and then to meet his. And then finally, Phil closed his eyes, feeling that pull at the base of his spine, he swallowing him down as he fell apart at the seams again. Neymar stood back up slowly, tipping Phil's face up with a finger, kissing him gently. Phil sighed when he finally opened the kiss, and once again, Phil could taste himself on his lips. Phil had to break the kiss, leaning his head back on the wall. "Fuck, I love you."

Neymar chuckled, kissing at Phil's anchor tattoo. "I know you do. You wouldn't still be here if you didn't. You wouldn't have come here last night if you didn't." He pressed a gentle kiss on Phil's lips, before grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the bedroom. "It's my turn." Neymar had made short work of getting Phil ready, fucking him with two lubed fingers, his mouth back over the cut he had made on his thigh, sucking at it, knowing that no blood would come forth but it was still the thought that mattered.

Once Phil was desperately grasping at his hair, Neymar had moved his mouth away, and pulled his fingers out, before pushing himself in, thrusting shallowly at first, going deeper only when Phil would beg, "please, stop fucking around…" He had to give in, he had said please. He thrust into him hard enough to bruise the both of them, but would intersperse them with those soft, shallow thrusts that drove Phil crazy. He couldn't rely on a steady rhythm to get off to, and Neymar loved to make Phil squirm like this.

He looked down at the cut he had made on Phil's chest, seeing it start to slightly scab over. That couldn't happen, not yet. He dug his thumbnail into the cut, and scraped along the length of it, making it freshly bleed anew. Phil went to hiss in pain, but suddenly Neymar's mouth was locked back over the cut, a hand finding its way to rest at the base of Phil's throat, while he fucked into him, almost as if the potential of tasting his blood had fueled him to go harder and faster.

Phil rested his own hand over Neymar's, urging him silently to maybe…possibly… Neymar could sense it, and very slightly tightened his grip on Phil's throat. Phil didn't think he could cum again, not this soon, but it still felt good, and when Neymar finally let his mouth go from Phil's chest, and instead buried his teeth in Phil's neck, moving his hand away to hold tightly to his hips, Phil just let go. Feeling Neymar's weight on top of him, it grounded him, which was ironic, considering a day and a half ago he was running from that very thought.

It only took a few more thrusts, desperate and deep, before Neymar was coming hard. He had started to say something, but Phil could only make out "I…fuck…" before it had devolved into a groan. He thought he knew what Neymar was going to say, so he didn't question it. Neymar placed a few soft kisses along his neck and shoulder, before pulling out, and resting his head on Phil's chest, gently brushing his fingers over the cut on his chest.

Phil looked in the mirror of the bathroom, still foggy in most parts from the shower he had taken, but in the small section he had wiped clear, he could see that red line on his chest, where Neymar had cut to bring up blood, but instead let out so much more. He traced a finger over it, and while there was no blood on his finger, he still tentatively sucked the finger into his mouth, as if he could taste the emotions instead.

He finally had to take a shower, after the insanity of the past night and morning. Between being covered in tears, blood, some alcohol, sweat, more blood, and even some cum; after being sliced and after fucking Neymar and after being fucked by Neymar, he was sore. He was exhausted. He was incredibly hungry, and he had postponed a conversation that he…he didn't really know if he wanted to have anymore. He knew the reasons were stupid, he didn't know where they were standing currently, but he knew that this was different than last time. It didn't look like it on the surface, but something changed this morning when Neymar had asked him to fuck him. That never happened. Ever.

That had to mean something was different, right?

He stretched, feeling some of the tension in his back and shoulders leaving, a rewarding popping of his shoulder making him groan slightly, motivating himself silently to go out of the bathroom and just get the conversation over with. It's not going to be going in the original direction anyways, it should be fine, or at least that's what he told himself.

He opened the bathroom door, padding into the bedroom, seeing that where he had left Neymar, who had been half asleep and well fucked, on the bed was now empty. And the sheets were gone. He sighed, and headed out to the kitchen. He looked over at the top of the dresser, realizing he had left his phone there from last night after he texted Rafinha. He had three missed calls, and nine texts waiting for him. Great. He quickly listened to the voice messages, all from Rafinha asking what was going on, why wasn't he answering, so on and so forth. He deleted them all, knowing that the text messages were probably going to say the same thing.

\- Phil, you need to be careful. -  
\- I know how you get about him. You worry about him, so do I, but enough is enough. -  
\- If he's ok, just leave. You said it yourself. -  
\- You stayed the night didn't you? Goddamnit. -  
\- I hope you know what you got yourself into now. -  
\- Just, please, please be careful.  
\- I worry about the both of you. -  
\- Goddamnit Phil can you please just call me or text me or something and let me know you're ok?  
\- …at least make sure he takes care of you this time? –

Phil closed his eyes, sighing, before sending a few texts back.

\- I'm ok, he's ok. I stayed the night. Shit happened. We're gonna talk today. -  
\- I'll let you know what happens after. Just trust me on this? -  
\- I didn't realize how bad it was until last night. -  
\- And don't worry, he has been. –

He locked the phone, placing it back on the dresser, and grabbed a pair of sweatpants to wear. This was the problem with unexpected sleepovers - no clothes of your own. He made his way out into the living room, seeing Neymar sitting on the couch, back in those low-slung jeans, but he at least decided to put on a plain black t-shirt this time. How considerate of him.

Neymar looked up, and grinned. "I kind of like seeing you wear my clothes. Yours are in the pile to get washed." Phil had nodded, putting a hand to his stomach when he felt it grumble. Neymar laughed, and stood up, walked over to Phil and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. "Come on, let's get some food. And then we'll talk."

"Oh, uh…we don't, we don't need to anymore." Phil was nervous, he really didn't want to have this conversation now; he had basically destroyed every argument he had justified in his head, and had done so with blood on his tongue and moans on his lips. If he tried to explain himself now, he'd realize just how foolish he had been, and that would make him feel so much worse about putting Neymar through this.

Neymar looked down at him, his face going hard for just a moment, before smiling. "No. No I think we need to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you love this paring as much as me leave a kudos, comment and tell me what you think about this fianfic and neytinho.
> 
> I hope Coutinho shows how good he can be tonight, he deserves the best.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite chapter so far.

"You know you're going to have to tell me eventually, right?" They were sitting in the kitchen, working their way through some Chinese takeout that Phil knew was absolutely not part of their diet, but that Neymar didn't seem to really care about either way. Neymar was staring right at Phil, who was awkwardly poking at his lo mein noodles, not looking up at him. Neymar sighed, shaking his head, before ripping off a piece of beef teriyaki with his teeth.

Phil finally spoke up, if speaking up is what you would call it. It was more of a nervous murmur, one that required Neymar to stop chewing and lean in to hear. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

He's answered with a loud sigh. "I said, it was stupid."

"Well, obviously not, if you followed through with it to the extreme that you did." There's a slight hint of bitterness that Phil feels slap at him, a gentle smack on the cheek in more mockery than actual anger. Phil knew he shouldn't have taken the bait, he knew that this is how every argument with them started, but then again, he was stuck on an endless loop with Neymar.

"Yeah. Yeah I did. But I came back."

Neymar swallowed his food, humming his acknowledgement. "Yeah. You still left though. So cut the shit and tell me why. I at least deserve that much."

Phil let his fork hit the plate with an irritating clang. "That. That's why. You fly off the fucking handle over the stupidest shit, you have this massive fucking chip on your shoulder about goddamn everything. You are absolutely infuriating sometimes. You're so goddamn needy. If you aren't getting attention every five minutes you act out like a goddamn toddler. You can never have a serious conversation without trying to crack some joke, and you always find some way to goad me into an argument!" Phil's voice had raised a little, and Neymar watched him with this obnoxiously amused smirk on his face, ripping at more of the beef teriyaki.

"And you still came back." He swallowed again.

"Didn't your mother tell you to not talk with your mouth full?" Phil felt his face pale slightly at the mention of Neymar's mother, but Neymar seemed to ignore it, thank god.

"And didn't your mother tell you to not get wrapped up with bad boys? You knew full and well that Dani or Rafa could have saved my ass last night, but no…you insisted on seeing me, he told me you know. So you either have some serious savior complex going on, or you felt bad. Maybe both. I'm not sure. But you came back. So obviously you weren't so convinced as you thought." Phil just sits there, glaring at Neymar, unable to form the words that best illustrate his absolute frustration at him. He looks at him, really looks at him, and tries to reason with his brain and his heart - and even his cock - as to what the hell is so enticing about this actual grown child. On a shallow, physical level, he knew that Neymar was attractive. The mobs of fans pining for Neymar made it clear that he was good looking, and he'd have to agree. Stylish hairstyles, incredibly hooded green-gold eyes, and those magenta full lips, his golden brown skin with ink all over it. He never doubted the physical attraction. He wanted to know what it was that made him fall in love with him, and so irrevocably in love at that.

He wasn't even really that much into guys in the first place, not really, not like that. He'd appreciate how they looked, he'd acknowledge that much, but it was different for Neymar and he didn't know why, and that bothered him. How could he justify leaving him when he couldn't justify why he stayed in the first place? He went to scratch at his chest, pausing when he realized the itch was the healing of the cut that Neymar had made. His fingers stayed momentarily before dropping down to rest on his leg, clenching slowly into a fist. "You bring out the worst in me, you know."

Neymar shrugged, looking down at his hands, as if he were inspecting his nails. "I like to think I bring out the best in you, personally. I think you're much more true to yourself when you're all worked up. You get this weird energy around you, it's fucking addicting, you know that? It fucking smothers everything around it, it takes hold of everything. You get all twitchy, you're jumping around like you're going to just burst loose into some sort of flame or electricity or something, and it's this weirdly beautiful thing to watch. Watching you get angry, watching you listen to that music of yours, watching you when we're fucking…" Neymar smirks. “I think that's when you're the most real. Because you just let go of all of the bullshit." Neymar smiled a large, cheesy grin, before ripping into the last part of the beef teriyaki. He jammed the skewer the meat had been on into the Styrofoam container he had been eating out of, leaning back against the chair, swallowing the food down. "And hey, listen, I know I'm kind of a dick…"

"Kind of?"

"Shut the fuck up, I'm trying to apologize here." Phil went to say something, but caught himself, and closed his mouth slowly, a look of slight confusion on his face. "Like I was saying. I know I'm kind of a dick. I've got all my issues and shit, and whatever, and I know it pisses you off that I don't talk about them, and I guess I can see why now, being on the other side of it. I'm sorry that you felt like you had to go running away or whatever, but the fact that you came back, that means something to me. I know you usually don't say or do things lightly, and hell I don't either, but you went back on your promise, twice. You promised to never leave…but you also said you weren't coming back. So, which one is it?"

Phil sighed, pushing his plate of food away from him. He had lost his appetite, his stomach having been tied into knots over this conversation. "I meant what I said. I can't leave you."

"Good to know." Neymar looked up at Phil, and placed his hand on the table, palm up. Phil rolled his eyes slightly, placing his hand in Neymar's. It reminded him of the first time they had hung out as more than whatever the hell they were, with Neymar freezing when Phil had grabbed his hand, before relaxing into the touch, and then not letting go of his hand the rest of the night, he felt seventeen again. He was not one for serious displays of any sort of affection, which is why the past 24 hours had been so strange for Phil.

"So, now what?"

Phil had meant that question to be about them and their relationship. Neymar took it literally. "I don't know. I could honestly fall asleep right now." He moved his hand so their fingers interlaced, rubbing his thumb along Phil's. Phil felt the sparks again, flickering around whatever shadow had originally crept up his arm. He wasn't the only one who was electric.

Neymar had passed out on the couch, face first into the cushions. Phil took the time to grab his phone and head out onto the balcony, dialing Rafinha's number. It rang a few times, until finally he heard that low voice on the other end. "Took you damn long enough."

"I know. I'm sorry Rafa."

"So, what the hell happened?"

Phil sighed, telling Rafinha about how he had rushed over to Paris to make sure he wasn't dead, having found him bleeding and drunk and crying. He skimmed over the sexual tension, told him about how Neymar had started crying again, and then how he had cleaned him up and put him to bed. "And that's when I texted you."

"Yeah. I know that part. Ney told me that part. What you aren't telling me is what happened after you passed out next to him…"

Phil groaned. forgetting that Neymar had told Rafinha in very minimal detail what happened as well.. "Well…"

"Well, what."

"Well, we…"

"You fucked, didn't you."

"I wouldn't have called it fucking that time, to be honest with you."

"You say that as if it's happened more than once…"

"…"

"…Phil…"

"Oh god, please don't talk to me like a kid.”

"No, you're a grown ass man and should know the fuck better. You left for a reason."

"And I came back for a reason."

"Phil, guilt is not a reason."

Phil had slumped down on the cement of the balcony, an echo of how he had found Neymar that morning. He looked down at the phone for a moment, doing his best to not let his anger get the best of him and fling it off of the balcony. He took a few deep breaths and put it back to his ear. "Rafa. It's not guilt. It's regret."

He heard Rafinha sigh, one of resignation and possible irritation. "Fine. Fine, Phil. You know I worry about the both of you, I'm just…I'm just kind of confused on what is going on with you two. One minute you're storming out, another minute he's drunk and crying and bleeding everywhere, the next minute you're there patching him up and… I just can't catch up with you two, and it's kind of frustrating because I can't help you two if you don't know where the fuck you stand."

"You're telling me. I don't know where we stand either. All I know is that I told him I can't leave him again, I never could leave him, and I think that might be the one honest thing I've come to terms with."

"Well, then I don't know what to tell you, because it was only a few days ago that you were saying that you couldn't do this anymore. You need to clear your head and think rationally about this before you go making any more rash decisions. You're going to hurt Ney again, and honestly, I don't think I could stand to hear him the way he was before."

"I think it'd hurt me more than him, to be honest."

"Then you don't know him as well as you think." Phil had stayed out on the balcony, watching the lights on the Paris strip turn on, a sleazier version of watching the street light up with Christmas lights. It was still breathtaking watching each bulb flicker before glowing in the darkness of the night, but the meaning behind it wasn't the same. Maybe Rafinha was right. Maybe he didn't know Neymar as well as he thought. For some reason, that hurt his insides, a slow and twisting burn.

His thoughts were interrupted by the feel of arms wrapping around him and a kiss to his shoulder. "I'm surprised you didn't head back to your hotel room to grab clothes." These little moments of intimacy always threw Phil for a loop. He was used to the passion, the aggression, the blood sweat and tears. But this gentleness, this begging and pleading, these soft touches and kisses, it was a side of Neymar he hadn't seen, and it confused his body even more. That slow burn became a sharper sting.

"You're awfully quiet right now. What's up?"

"I talked to Rafa today. Finally."

"How'd that go?"

"Let's not talk about it."

"That bad, huh?"

 

Phil sighed, leaning his head back against Neymar's body, humming when Neymar kissed his forehead again. He had all of this tension in his body growing, his uncertainty at where his life was going, where this…whatever-they-were was going. He didn't realize he was shaking until Neymar tightened his hold around him and whispered in his ear. "What do you need?" God, how did he always know? How did he know when to step in and take care of him, when he couldn't even reciprocate? How could he read him like a book, when he felt like there were facets of Neymar he'd never be able to access, not without digging his way inside of him? "Phil. Let me take care of you. It's the least I can do after last night." Phil had to close his eyes at that. It stung more than the razor marks on his skin. Neymar's hand had moved towards his chest, trailing a finger across the cut he had left. "What do you need, Phil. Tell me." To know what is going on. To get some answers. To feel something.

"To feel something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some rumors about Coutinho leaving Barca this summer and I hope he transfers PSG, although I've learned my lesson not to believe rumors after Neymar's going to Madrid turned out to be false, but I can't help get my hops up about Couti. lol


	7. Chapter 7

"What do you need, Phil. Tell me." Neymar had asked it out of sheer curiosity, because this weekend, so far, had been about what he needed, and what he wanted, and what fleeting parts of them he could still grasp onto. He had been feeling everything and nothing at once, thoughts churning in time with his stomach, and the end result had left him bloodied but with Phil back here. How selfish of him.

So whenever Phil replied, "to feel something," one of the knots in his stomach that had loosened over the past 24 hours started to reform, tighter than before. Had he been ignoring what Phil needed? He didn't think so, not with the way that he and Phil made each other unravel to only put each other back together.

Neymar realized that there was always some sense of reciprocation required. Wow, he really was incredibly selfish. Maybe Phil was right. Maybe he did focus on his needs more than anyone else. He traced his fingers along the cuts on Phil's chest again, kissing at his neck, closing his eyes tightly. He didn't know where to start with Phil, he didn't know what to give him. "What do you need to feel? I need to know, so I can get you there, or at least try."

"Fuck, I don't know. Nothing. Everything. Something. I just need to fucking feel something. I just feel… blank. Desperate."

"Alright. Shit… alright." Phil didn't know where this aching emptiness inside him came from, but it picked a hell of a time to show up. The past 24 hours had been an emotional rollercoaster, and he knew that a lot of what he had said and done, both in leaving and in coming back, was driven by heart and not by head, the very thing he accused Neymar of when he left. He said it was his weakness, that he had no common sense, that he went blindly into everything with passion, and while in some cases it worked in his favor, he would otherwise burn himself out, he'd hurt himself past repair, and he couldn't stand back and watch that anymore. And here he was, grasping at sheets as Neymar gently worked a finger inside of him, rubbing at his back, trailing fingers over the tattoo on his shoulder, murmuring to him, "that's it, tell me when you need more." That was the problem though. He always needed more. He gasped out that it was okay for another finger, and when he felt the stretch, he buried his face in the pillow, appreciating the fleeting moments of sensation sending sparks down his limbs. It wasn't the constant thrumming, that slow burn, that he needed, but it was a start, and if he had to light himself on fire, he would, as long as Neymar was the one holding the match. Neymar watched the tension in the muscles of Phil's back, seeing how he seemed to be clenching his fists into the sheet, nearly smothering himself with the pillow. Out of sheer curiosity, he dragged his nails down the length of Phil's spine, and the noise that had escaped from his throat was the answer that Neymar needed to pursue this further. "Do you need me to be rough or not."

"I don't know."

"What do you want to feel, Phil?"

"Fuck, I don't know, just fucking something." Neymar shook his head, eyes closed, not wanting to aggravate the situation. So, instead, he worked another finger inside, the groan that spilled onto the pillow a good sign. He worked his fingers a bit more roughly, placing pressure right where it would strike against his prostate, he knew Phil would fall apart, and as soon as he stroked his fingers inside again, one of Phil's arms gave out. Excellent.

Neymar slowly pulled his fingers out, the muffled, disappointed whine of Phil's making him smirk. "Relax…" He wiped his hand on the towel he had grabbed - planning ahead this time – before placing more lube on his hand to coat himself with. He'd gone without a condom this time, which he knew was probably not the smartest decision he'd ever made, but he'd made plenty worse. He lined himself up, pushing in slowly, half in an attempt to appreciate the feel of nothing between them, the other half in an attempt to elicit some sort of response from Phil.

Phil had only let out a harsh breath, because he had been biting his lip, trying to get some feeling in his system. He knew he had burnt himself out, giving his everything to Neymar, and it was like he had borrowed against energy and emotion that he didn't have at the time. He was running on a negative, and nothing in the world seemed to be enough to balance him, let alone fill him back up. Neymar being flush against him, hard and warm inside of him, that seemed to be part of the solution. Neymar thrust shallowly a few times, before laying himself over Phil's back, grabbing one of his fists, wrapping his hand over it. He pried his fingers in between Phil's, releasing the tense grip, instead entwining their fingers. "Let go, Phil."

The change in angle already made some sort of twinge shoot up Phil's neck and back down his throat, a strange current of energy he wanted to cling to. "Don't make me beg, Ney." He nodded, knowing what Phil meant. This wasn't the time for teasing, this was a time for rebuilding, or something to that effect. Neymar wasn't sure, all he knew is that he was feeling some sort of fire burning in him, low in his body, almost the base of his spine, white hot, and not the way he would if he was near cumming. This was a different type of energy, a different type of fire, and something was guiding him to give that to Phil.

He wanted to be gentle. Phil deserved gentle. After the rough emotions and the blood and the tears, he deserved this comfort. But that odd, burning, white light in his body needed to be forced into him, to break up the shadow he had felt creep around the both of them, and it had to be pushed inside him, or else it would burn at his insides again. He couldn't argue with the energy thrumming in his body as he snapped his hips against Phil, feeling some of that energy bleed out of him.

It was as if tendrils, some sort of aura, something, had made their way off of Neymar to wrap around Phil, digging at his chest, trying to burrow its way in. The chink in his armor was the cuts on his chest, a small opening but one nonetheless. The fire that Neymar had felt at the bottom of his spine was now in Phil, resting just as uncomfortably there as it did within him.

It seemed with each thrust, it would move up both of their spines, but the other didn't know. It would burn at their stomach, become sharp stinging at their ribs, and when it hit their chests, it lit the chains that connected their hearts on fire. Whatever feeling that Phil had been looking for, this had to be it, Neymar reckoned, because whatever he was feeling had to be an echo of it. All he could see when he closed his eyes were sparks and colors and any shadow, any doubt, any ill that he had felt in that moment was starting to bleed away, was starting to be pulled from him. Phil was wiping him clean.

Phil, on the other hand, could feel the energy swirling along his spine, up towards his head, causing a fantastic burning in his stomach, his heart clenching as if an extra beat made its way into the rhythm, before pulsing up into his throat as a moan. His head ached, his eyes burned from keeping them clenched and from the tears that were forming. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but goddamnit it seemed to be doing the job, at least for now. He felt clear, he felt a resonating emptiness of loss that wasn't pain but contentment.

When Neymar bit down on his shoulder, groaning as he started to spill inside of him, it was as if the flame shot up his spine again from root to head, and he couldn't form words, nonsensical sounds dripping from his lips as Neymar desperately wrapped a hand around his hard length, his grip firm as he brought Phil over the edge, basking in a glow that he swore had wrapped itself around the both of them, still connected. The chains started to burn away, melting in that strange light they both unconsciously felt. It felt like cords, ones that could stretch across time and space without snapping. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt at this point.

Neymar kissed gently between his shoulder blades, and it brought him out of the meditative haze he had unwittingly found himself in. He smiled lazily, slumping his face back into the pillow, groaning as Neymar slid out. "Come on, let's take a shower…"

The shower had been mainly gentle kisses and caresses, interspersed with washing each other's hair and bodies, before succumbing to slow, lazy frontage, Neymar's large hand wrapping around the both of them with ease. Neither of them were desperate for orgasm any time soon, there was just a crackling energy between them, rainbow sparks whenever they touched, and it was nearly impossible to break them apart. Neymar licked over the healing cuts on Phil's chest, before making his way to his neck, nipping gently before murmuring into his skin. "What was that?" Phil barely could speak himself, the tranquility of the moment muffling his already arousal-heavy voice.

"I said I love you."

"I know you do." Neymar hummed into his shoulder, and maintained the slow strokes, sighing against him. He wanted to give Phil everything, he'd cut open his chest and give him his heart if that's what he needed to do. He'd been trying since the beginning, trying to dig his heart out with Phil's hand, to make him feel the blood and sinew, but he felt like it would never be enough, not for him. He was glad that the water was still warm in the shower. He could hide the tears easier. The shower had ended with breathy moans and lazy kisses, shaking limbs and fingers entwined with each other's. Once more they found each other on the balcony, the cacophony of light and sound acting in counterpoint to the tranquility of them lounging back against the railing of the balcony, a cigarette perched on Neymar's lip. Phil looked over at him, seeing the smoke trail slowly from Neymar's mouth when he pulled the cigarette away, blowing the smoke up to shroud his face momentarily. Phil debated taking a drag of the cigarette himself, just to revel in that same burn with Neymar, but he had already broken enough personal rules as is. Neymar smiled, before stubbing out the cigarette on the concrete. "So, are you feeling better?"

"I don't feel as hollow as I did before."

"…you felt hollow?" Phil looked over to see Neymar blinking, his smile fading, and Phil sighed. He knew explaining this would be odd, which is why he never usually brought it up.

"It's not your fault, honestly. I thought I lost everything after that match." 

"I know what you mean, the result, well, was unexpected." Neymar shook his head, looking straight ahead, seeing the expanse of the strip before the darkness of the sky. "You know if you ever need anything, I can help."

"Ney, you've given me more than enough. In fact, sometimes I think you give me too much, give everyone too much…"

"I haven't given you enough at all. I feel like nothing would be enough for you, not what I want to give you. I'd jump into the goddamn ocean for you, and it wouldn't be enough to fill whatever emptiness you may feel, you give or everything for me, foe country, when I was being a piece of trash out there."

Phil turned to look at him, not sure where this admission was coming from, because Neymar always seemed pretty aloof with his feelings, especially ones as deep as these. "Hey. Ney. Look at me." Neymar turned to look at him, anxiously flexing his fingers, trying to crack his knuckles. "I understand the situation, but it’s like you don’t and for me your love is enough."

"It wasn't before. Why would it be now? I know I'm the one who made you hollow not the out come of the world cup. How would my love be enough for you now, when it doesn't even make you give up your woman?"

Phil looked down, turning his head away and biting his lip. He nodded sadly, not sure of what answer to give Neymar. He glanced over to see Neymar resting his head against the railing, looking up at the sky and the few stars that weren't smothered by the Paris lights. Phil reached a hand out for Neymar to hold, and nudged his thigh with it. Neymar looked down and then over to Phil, who nodded his head as if to say it were ok. Neymar placed his hand in Phil's, and it seemed to be a silent agreement. They'd figure out how to make it enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE THEM.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in a good fucking mood in a while for writing, Phil's just playing great again and Ney's finally got back from injury.

They played this game the whole weekend, tiptoeing around the severity of their emotions and the gaping chasm of where they were and where healthy relationships were. Watching television, a hand would graze the other's arm, and the chills ran as sharp as knives, making hair stand at the back of their necks. What little they had talked about had clarified so much and yet shrouded so many more secrets.

Neymar wondered how often Phil made himself hollow over him. How often he burned himself out pouring all his loving and devotion and caring into trying to fix him. That was the problem, though. Phil tried so hard, so fucking hard, to try and fix something in Neymar. What Neymar had couldn't be fixed. Trust him, lord, he had tried.

He lay there, watching Phil asleep against the sheets and saw that for the first time this weekend, Phil seemed to breathe easily. Neymar was glad that at least someone in this house could. He, instead, had lain there staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts get the best of him once more. He had done a good job of letting them scream themselves into oblivion, of tiring themselves out, of not acknowledging them, letting them pass through. His world had sort of turned inside out, his emotions felt flayed and salted, and everything stung in a way that was bitter and yet exhilarating.

Phil was the one who wanted to feel something, and Neymar was the one who felt too goddamn much. He wished he could make everything hurt less for Phil, and god, how fucking selfish had he been, making this all about him, acting as if Phil leaving only hurt him. He couldn't get over how much of a fucking moron he was, and he knew that if he stayed within the self-imposed prison that his rather bland house was, he was going to snap, and he didn't want Phil to be witness to that, not again, not so soon.

He gently eased out of bed, throwing on the first pair of jeans and boots he could find, grabbing his jacket from over the door. He scribbled out a note to be left on the counter. He grabbed the keys, and looked behind him, sighing, before closing the door.

He decided to drive to church like he usually did when he needed a mental vacation not for praying. The Paris strip was nice, but after a while the lights and sound became just as jarring and discordant in his brain as the rest of his thoughts. Here, he could sit in the holy silence of the church and listen to what his mind had to say. He wanted to hear the thoughts, he wanted to give them the floor, instead of just pushing them away like he had always done. So he found his usual spot.

He sat there for a few moments, resting his head against his hands, deep but ragged breaths the only sound he could hear. Absolutely bleak and desolate. He tended to enjoy the things in life that he felt he couldn't absolutely destroy because they were already a void when he got to them. Phil, unfortunately, seemed to relish in becoming that void for him.

He had felt the warm wetness of tears on his face before he realized he had started crying. He had cried more in the past weekend than he had in his entire fucking life, and that bothered him, ate at him, made him realize just how far he had let Phil in. He knew that if Phil asked, Neymar really would cut himself wide open, to let Phil crawl inside, to take grasp of his heart and his lungs and his spine and claim them as his, to tattoo his initials like a brand, to mark him as his and only his, and Neymar would do it with a smile on his face. Phil thought he needed to feel something, and Neymar didn't know how much more he could make it obvious to Phil. Neymar could feed him emotions for days, but would it ever be enough for Phil? Would Neymar have to become hollowed out in order for Phil to be content, for once?

Neymar didn't think he had it in him. Not for lack of trying, not for not wanting to do so. He just had tried to hide his emotions for way too long. Those are scars on the legs just as bad as a blade, and as he itched absentmindedly at the ones he left on himself on his chest, he felt the need for the burn of a cigarette.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the feeling of that warm, white energy he had felt with Phil. That burning light up his spine. He didn't believe in much that was esoteric or spiritual or whatever, but whatever the fuck that had been had to fall in one of those categories. Maybe that's what people meant by calling someone their other half, or their soul mate or twin flame or whatever. He wasn't sure, he figured part of his damage was that he was damaged goods, missing a piece, a set that could not ever be completed. But, Phil tried, and it felt good, and he felt whole, and he may not have been the proper piece but enough had been worn off and sliced away that he could fit comfortably enough. Neymar wondered if what was removed in order for Phil to fit comfortably into Neymar's life was the part that told him when to quit. 

Phil on the other hand, woke up to an empty bed, the television low and playing some infomercial. Neymar had a tendency to wake up at odd intervals of the night, Phil padded out into the kitchen to see the note on the counter and the keys gone. He lazily got dressed, knowing there was no rush, no danger. Neymar would be sitting on the front row of the church.

When he walked back out into the kitchen, he saw that there was his spare key on the counter next to the letter. Neymar knew he'd be after him. Neymar gave him a way back. Phil pocketed the key, and walked out of the door, locking it behind him.

Neymar wasn't surprised when he heard the crunch of footsteps and someone sitting beside him. "You found me."

"Like I'd ever lose you."

Neymar smirked, and turned his head in the direction of the voice, opening his eyes slowly. "What, did the bed get cold without me?"

Phil rolled his eyes and offered his hand to Neymar. Neymar grabbed it, Phil pulled him till they were out of he church and inside of his car, he grabbed him by the front of the jacket, kissing him, deep and slow, taking his time in sucking the air from Neymar's lungs. He broke the kiss finally, nipping gently at his bottom lip, before trailing kisses down his neck, feeling the flutter of his pulse under tongue and teeth. "I can never lose you." He murmurs this into Neymar's skin, clammy from the nighttime heat, kissing over his pulse before grazing teeth, tugging gently at the curls at the back of his head.

"You're in fucking everything now." Phil moved his hand away, instead resting it on Neymar's hip, pulling him towards him, making Neymar feel how he was already starting to harden at the thought.

"Yeah, I'm a fucking plague." Neymar groaned when he felt Phil hard against him, hitting his head slightly as he leaned back against the window. "I ruin everything I fucking touch."

"You haven't ruined me."

"Are you sure about that?"

Neymar was answered by Phil undoing his pants, and wrapping his hand around him, stroking him slowly, feeling him grow thicker in his grasp. Phil grinned, watching Neymar's face shift into relief and pleasure as he stroked him more, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the slit, catching what little precum was there, and then bringing his thumb up to his mouth. "You don't taste like a plague to me."

"Come here." Neymar grabbed Phil's face with both hands, kissing him hungrily, that possessive streak of tasting himself on Phil's lips ringing like a gong all the way along his nerves. His hand entangled itself in Phil's hair, while the other went to fumble with the fly of Phil's pants, when he swore he could taste the laughter coming from Phil. The kiss broken, both of them gasping for air, chests heaving, they both reached to grasp the other, with Phil winning by swatting Neymar's hand away, holding him as he rocked against him, desperate for that mutual release.

"You don't…you don't fucking get it, Neymar." Phil bit again at Neymar's neck, harder, definitely leaving a mark this time, his other hand threading back into the curls at the back of Neymar's head. "Fuck, you don't get it… just… fuck, you can't ruin me. I won't let you." He moved his hand from Neymar's hair to curve around to rest at the base of his throat, Phil looking at Neymar, saying silently that he can give just as well as he can receive. "You're more than enough. You've always been more than enough. You're in fucking everything… fuck-" He felt himself starting to cum, spilling hot against Neymar and his own hand, stroking himself into near oversensitivity in his mission to get Neymar off. "You are fucking everything."

He nipped at Neymar's bottom lip, capturing his mouth as he felt Neymar spill over onto him, which is exactly what he wanted, only he wanted more. He wanted Neymar to spill everything into him. He swallowed those moans and sighs down, smiling against his lips as a whimper made its way out of Neymar's throat. He finally broke the kiss, resting his head against Neymar's shoulder, bringing his hand up to lick at. Neymar watched him, silently, in shock at how it seems as if Phil had shifted, if whatever that burning light at his spine had done had changed him somehow. He felt some of that overwhelming what the fuck is this leaving his body, seeping off of him, like a fog breaking apart in the daylight. He smiled at Phil, and kissed his forehead.

"I mean it Neymar. You're fucking everywhere, fucking everything, it's like I can feel you in my fucking blood. If you cut me open, I swear you'd be inside of me." Neymar ignored the screaming in the back of his mind, the repeated yelling of how the fuck, how in the fuck, how did he, what in the, how does he know? Instead, he captured Phil's clean hand in his, kissing where their fingers were entwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't care I love this chapter even it doesn't make sense.


End file.
